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I’ve made my problems visible to the world. I put it right out there on my chest, for everyone to see. It doesn’t even look like a mistake. I could cover it, sweaters, scarves, high shirts. But truthfully I couldn’t be bothered. I tear myself apart to feel alive. I remember when I was younger and my heart use to skip a beat when your hands were all over me. This feels the same. But different. It hurts and leaves marks but it’s proof that I’m alive. People would see us, and now they see me. I wonder what they think about my own personal stiches. But I really don’t care in the end, what they think about them that is… It’s more liberating than other body parts I suppose, less cliché possibly. But the whole idea is so cliché that the location ceases to matter. Right? I don’t know. I get, messed up sometimes. Confused. As to where I am, and where I’m going. What’s important, who matters. More importantly, who doesn’t matter. And why they don’t matter. I get stuck. And I just think, if I could get out of this town. If I could go somewhere, do something, be someone then I wouldn’t be stuck anymore. I can feel my blood sticking in my veins; it’s not flowing like it should. I’m breaking down. Piece by piece. And I don’t know how to change it.